The Value of Art
by Aerle
Summary: To some, art doesn't belong in a museum. Birthday fic for MyLadyDay
1. Prologue

Happy birthday, MyLadyDay!

Beta'ed by ImperialMint and Vergina-spva

* * *

><p>- Ten years ago -<p>

Silent as a shadow, he slipped from corner to corner, making sure not to trigger any alarms. Not yet anyway. One would think that after several thefts in the city, the store would take more precautions, yet it was still relatively easy to sneak in. Granted, there were more cameras and security guards, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Marco had been a thief almost his whole life. His parents had died when he was young and he had been stuffed into an orphanage.

Being born a devil's fruit user, or so they called it, meant one had to have one's powers blocked. Now that the government had found out about Marco's, he was no exception. It was illegal to have such powers, even though the wielders couldn't help it themselves – after all, they were born with it – and there had been a piece of seastone implanted at the bottom of his spine. It only had hurt for a little while after the implant had been made and the only thing reminding him of the surgery was a small scar, but he couldn't use his powers anymore. At the time, he had been too young to question it, and he hadn't made the connection that, after the implant had been inserted, he had been sick a lot, while the seastones should have been completely safe and have no side effect.

After his powers had been taken away, he had been adopted by a man, who had turned out to be a thief. He had taught him all kinds of tricks, and when the man had discovered that Marco was a devil's child, the man had insisted that the seastone must be removed.

"The powers aren't bad," he had explained to Marco. "The government is just afraid of them."

According to the government, removing the seastone was impossible and would only result in pain or even death. That was what Marco had been told when he had received the implant, along with a course on why having powers was bad. Marco had only been a child then, and he had believed the government agents. Why would they lie?

The man who had adopted him had let the subject rest after the boy had refused. Marco had started to forget they ever had the conversation and he had been happy. The man slowly started gaining his trust and Marco started to call him Pops. One night, he had woken up with a fever and going downstairs to get his father, he found the man sitting on the floor, meditating. For some reason, Marco had known something special would happen and not wanting to ruin it, he had hidden. Suddenly, the ground had starting to shake, causing Marco to lose his balance and fall over. Pops had opened his eyes and laughed when Marco had tried to hide again.

Marco had been scared. The man he called his father actually had devil's fruit powers? Pops had pulled him into his lap and explained how his powers worked patiently. He answered any question Marco might have and when he was done, he had asked Marco if he remembered which powers he had had. It had been two years since he had received the implant, so of course he did remember. He had told Pops all about how he could turn into a bird and heal his own wounds.

Then Pops asked an unexpected question. He asked if Marco missed his powers. Marco didn't have to think about it long. When his parents were still alive, he had been allowed to run around free, and while he had never fully mastered his powers, he had been able to transform. He had loved to fly, even if he hadn't been allowed by his parents to fly high or long. Now he finally started to understand why. He could have been caught by government agents and forced to give up his powers sooner. But he would have given anything to be able to fly again.

Pops had explained to him that he was one of the few people who was able to remove the seastone implants. The government only told it was impossible to discourage people from trying. It would hurt, he warned Marco, but he would get his powers back. Marco had hesitated, but when Pops had asked if Marco trusted him, he had nodded fiercely.

Pops had set everything up for the removal surgery, but as he wasn't a doctor, he could only get his hands on anaesthetics. Marco had thought he was going to die during the operation. He had passed out, and didn't wake up for several hours. After he did, however, he felt like he was reborn. Pops hadn't lied, he had gotten his powers back.

Marco had been happy living with Pops, but when he had been fifteen, the man was captured and thrown in prison, leaving Marco alone and sad behind.

He had started to live on the street, using the skills the man had taught him to survive. It had started with stealing food and breaking into houses to have a warm and dry place to sleep, but he had then discovered that people had nice stuff that other people liked to buy. He was good at stealing, and he made enough money to consider buying food instead of stealing it, to reduce the risk of getting caught. The night was a good cover for a thief, but the day was less kind and since stores were open during the day, there was a good chance of someone catching him.

Later, Marco had learned how to crack safes and directly take money instead of goods, so he didn't have to sell anymore. It was then that he had begun to rob banks and stores.

His skills hadn't gone unnoticed, and Marco was now wanted by the police, although they didn't know what he looked like. He had always made sure that he made a mask out of the blue flames he controlled when he heard something or someone approaching, covering the upper half of his face. It had been a reflex the first time, and he had feared that it would have attract attention, but instead, the person who caught him had stumbled back in shock, giving him time to flee. After all, people weren't used to devil's fruit users. It became his trademark look. His wanted poster contained a drawing of him including the mask and they called him The Phoenix.

Marco reached the safe without triggering the alarm and took out his stethoscope. The safe was a standard model, and was quite easy to crack. Opening the door, he was pleased to see he had hit the jackpot.

After he put the money in his bag, Marco sighed deeply. This was becoming so boring. He still hadn't been noticed by the security guards. Oh well, at least he had enough money to pay for food for a few months. Making his way back to the window he had come in through, he waved at the security camera, shifted into his bird shape and flew away.

He was already flying high in the sky when the alarm went off and Marco chuckled. Better late than never, right? Leisurely, he flew over the buildings of the city he lived in, looking for a place to land. He wasn't in a hurry, as he loved flying more than anything, but he knew he couldn't keep it up too long. He would only draw attention to himself.

Suddenly, he heard a commotion on the ground. At first, Marco assumed that he had been spotted and braced himself for the bullets that no doubt would whizz past him soon, but when he took a better look, he could see the tumult and shouting had nothing to do with him. On the streets below, he saw a small figure running, followed by a mob.

"Get away from me!" the front figure yelled, the voice of a child. The child turned around while running and threw something at his pursuers. Fire, Marco noted. The boy was a devil's child like him. Which could only mean one thing. The pursuers were government agents, ready to implant the seastone to suppress the child's powers.

Marco remembered how empty he had felt when they had implanted the seastone into him and how much pain he had been in when the device had been removed. He would never wish that upon anyone, certainly not a child.

The boy looked like he was about twelve, and since most children received their implant as infants or toddlers, it could mean either of two things. The first option was that he had had a seastone implant, which was now removed. In that case, Marco was sure the operation to remove the implant would be even more painful than the first time, if it was even possible to remove it twice at all. The second option was that the boy had evading the system and never had an implant and had been running from the law for a long time.

In both scenarios, however, the boy would end up losing his powers and would have to go through enormous pain to have it removed. The boy's life would be ruined. People who received their implant as an infant hardly ever remembered what kind of power they possessed and even Marco had not yet mastered his own powers when they had been taken away from him. This boy, almost hitting puberty, would already be too much used to them.

Marco watched as the boy ran into an alley, reaching a dead end. Panicking, he looked around for a way out as his pursuer approached. Desperately, he started to throw fireballs at them, but they were prepared for resistance and were wearing protective suits.

The Phoenix made a decision.

Swooping down, he placed himself between the government agents and the small boy and transformed back into a human, though he made sure that the flames still covered his eyes.

"Evening, gentlemen," he said calmly. "Why don't you leave the boy alone?"

"It's the Phoenix!" one of them yelled, and another pulled out his gun, which probably contained seastone bullets. Sighing, though on the other hand thrilled because his night had finally become interesting, Marco picked up the boy and helped him climb on his back.

"Wrap your arms around my neck," Marco ordered as he placed him on his back. Much to his surprise, the boy did as he was told. The Phoenix spread out his arms, transforming into his bird-self again, and flew away. The seastone bullets whizzed around him, but didn't make contact.

It was a good thing the boy wasn't too heavy, because aside from the bag with money, Marco had to carry him as well. Still, he didn't regret saving the boy, who had now buried his face in the Phoenix's flaming feathers and was holding on tightly. The longer they flew however, the braver the boy became, and soon the thief heard him laughing excitedly, warming Marco's heart.

Their flight couldn't last forever, though, and in the outskirts of town, Marco landed. He let the slightly disappointed boy get off before transforming into his human self, although he still made sure his mask was in place.

"That was awesome!" The boy's eyes sparkled. Then, he seemed to remember something and he bowed, surprising Marco. "Thank you for saving me, mister!"

The thief smiled and ruffled his hair. Marco then knelt down before him. "Show it to me."

The boy stared at Marco for a moment, but then nodded slowly. He stretched out his arm, flames seemingly licking at his skin, but the thief knew that they didn't hurt the boy. Mesmerised by the sight, he stretched out his hand and let his own blue flames intertwine with the orange ones. The boy seemed as equally captivated as he was.

After what seemed like forever, but in reality were mere minutes, Marco stood up again.

"Well, it seems like we should find a place to sleep, don't you think? Come on, I know a place close by." He held out his hand to the boy.

The boy stared at it warily for a moment, but then grabbed it. Marco led them to an abandoned house, which he often used to hide in. During their walk, he had time to study the boy. As he had thought before, the kid seemed to be about twelve. His clothes were dirty and worn, which made the thief suspect he was either an orphan or had very neglecting parents. The boy's attitude seemed to be that of a kid who spent a lot of time on the street, which would explain why he hadn't yet received a seastone. In the light of the street lanterns and the moon, the thief could see the many freckles that decorated the child's face, making him seem younger than he actually was.

They reached the house, and Marco was about to show him how to break in, but the boy beat him to it. He easily picked the lock, confirming the thief's suspicions that he did in fact lived on the street. The kid ran into the house, and by the time Marco reached the living room, the boy had already made himself comfortable on the couch, stretching and yawning. The man chuckled.

Marco waited until the boy was fast asleep before he slipped out of the house. He left the kid food and a map of the city, hoping that the boy would find his way back to where he came from in the morning.

The boy had been evading the law for twelve years, and Marco could only hope that he wouldn't be caught by the government later on after all. The boy deserved to be free, with his powers intact.


	2. Chapter 1

"Oh man, the Phoenix has struck again!" Ace exclaimed as he practically pushed the paper in his colleague's face. "He is so good, no one even saw him!"

"Give me that!" Usopp grabbed the newspaper and started to read. "Ace, this is art theft. The Phoenix just robs banks and stuff," he said, frowning.

"Don't you see? That's just it! Nobody will suspect him for stealing a piece of art. But he can, because he's that good." The freckled man couldn't help but heave a sigh.

Usopp rolled his eyes. "Of course _you _would think it's him. You're obsessed with this guy!"

"He has been robbing banks and stores for ten years and no one even knows what he looks like. He is that good." Ace chewed on his pencil. "I'm gonna find out who he is and tell the world!"

"Er, you know you're just doing a work placement, right?" Usopp said carefully. "We only run errands, bring coffee and such. They'll never allow you to pursue such a big story."

Ace smirked. "They never have to know." He took a device out of his bag. "Do you know what this is? It's a police radio," he continued without waiting for an answer. "As soon as he strikes, I'll know it too."

"How did you get this?" Usopp asked, wide-eyed.

The freckled man shrugged. "I borrowed it?"

His friend groaned. "You're gonna get in so much trouble."

"Not if I get the story of the century."

"You're crazy. And obsessed. Just because he saved you once doesn't mean he'll just let you ruin his career!" Usopp shook his head.

Ace rolled his eyes. "He didn't 'save' me. He made sure I remained a monster for longer than needed. Fortunately, that has been taken care of."

Absentmindedly, he felt at the scar where the seastone was implanted at the base of his spine. He had gotten it a few weeks after the Phoenix had interfered, when Ace was causing trouble and making bonfires.

At first, he had missed his powers a lot. He had been twelve when it had happened, older than most people when they received their implant. It had been explained to him why it was better this way. He was a devil's child, and by blocking his powers, the demon inside of him would be suppressed, allowing him to lead a normal, healthy life. He knew many people with an implant like his, and they weren't looked down upon by society, although it wasn't common to talk about having an implant. Only the people who refused to get help and kept using their powers were the ones to look out for. People with powers were dangerous, a threat to the government and civilians. People like the Phoenix.

You couldn't get a job unless you had an implant, and while most people received one soon after birth, some people just slipped through the mazes of the law. Children living on the street were such a category, the reason why it had taken so long for Ace to receive an implant. He had never been placed in an orphanage until he was twelve, when the government discovered his powers.

He had been living on the street for a long time, although he had always had enough food. Every day, someone had brought it to him, saying it was courtesy of an anonymous sponsor. Ace had been grateful enough. After he had gotten the implant, he had been put in the system and, soon enough, had been placed in a foster home. The anonymous sponsor hadn't forgotten him, and when his foster parents couldn't afford it, his sponsor made sure he could study journalism like Ace wanted, by paying his tuition.

He had now finished his education, and had gotten a job placement at the local paper, along with his friend Usopp. The life of a journalist – or at least, a starting journalist – wasn't as glamorous as he had expected. Far from it even, he was reduced to an errand boy! After years of studying, he deserved something more, right? Which was why Ace was determined to unmask the Phoenix. While he couldn't help but admire the thief for his abilities to sneak in buildings unseen and come out with a lot of cash, Ace hated him for what he represented. He was a devil's fruit user, and he set a bad example for children. Children like him.

He shivered. "Is it cold in here?"

Usopp rolled his eyes. "You're always cold. Sometimes I wonder if you even have blood circulation. How many sweaters are you wearing this time?"

"Only two," Ace pouted.

"Run a lap, that'll warm you up. Anyways, I'm going home. Are you coming too?" Usopp asked as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

"Nah, I still have some files to sort. If I don't do that before tomorrow, the chief is going to yell at me again."

"Alright, see ya later then. And don't do anything stupid!" his friend added as he left.

Ace snorted and got to work. By the time he had finished sorting the files, he was the last person in the building, aside from the security guard. Ace was just waving the man goodbye as the journalist left the building, when the police radio started to speak.

"We have a break in at the National Museum. All units respond," a female voice said.

Ace suppressed an excited yelp. This was it; he would unmask the Phoenix today! At the speed of light, he unlocked his bicycle and raced over to the museum, which fortunately was close by. By the time that he arrived, police cars had already surrounded the building. Ace doubted that the thief would come out via the front door, so he turned around and cycled to the back. Of course, the cops weren't stupid and there were cars there as well, but they hadn't done their homework like Ace – and probably the Phoenix – had. After all, why would one use the door when one could fly?

Trying to be inconspicuous, Ace stole towards the building. The west side didn't have any exits, so no cops were standing ready there. Of course, the freckled man had known that the art thief would hit the museum again, so he was prepared. From the side of the building, a rope ladder was dangling, half hidden by the ivy that covered the wall. Armed with his bag and a camera, Ace climbed the ladder. Once on the roof, he crouched down, camera ready, and waited.

As he expected, soon a grate was moved out of the way and a figure hoisted themselves onto the roof. When he turned around, Ace's heart skipped a beat. He was right. It was the Phoenix!

The same mask of flames burning as they had ten years ago, covering his face, the man straightened himself and looked at Ace, his head cocked a little and a package that could very well contain a painting tucked under his arm.

The freckled man jumped up, his camera ready.

"I knew it! They wouldn't believe me, but it's really you!" In his excitement, Ace had trouble keeping the camera steady.

Before he could snap a picture, however, the Phoenix smiled at him and jumped into the air. His arms turned into flaming wings, matching the blue shade of his mask, and he kicked Ace in the chest. The journalist couldn't regain his balance, tripping over the edge of the roof. He tried to hold onto something, but all he managed to grab was air. With a scream, he tumbled over the edge.

Beneath him, he heard panicked voices, and right when Ace had closed his eyes and made his final prayer, he was caught in two strong arms. Looking up, he met the eyes of an annoyed looking policeman.

"He's on the roof!" Ace yelled, though he doubted the Phoenix was still there. He had pushed Ace off the roof as a distraction. Clever bastard. He had probably even calculated that the police would catch him in some way, or else he was more sadistic than Ace had anticipated.

As soon as the policeman noticed he was okay, Ace was put down onto his feet.

"I was right!" the freckled man exclaimed. "It _was_ the Phoenix!"

The officer raised his eyebrow. "The Phoenix isn't an art thief, boy. Maybe we should get you checked at the hospital."

* * *

><p>Smirking, Marco flew across the night sky, the stolen painting safely in his talons. Granted, kicking the boy off the roof might have been a bit drastic, but the cops would have caught the kid. He hadn't expected anyone to be on the roof, so he had had to improvise. The boy had been a journalist or a wannabe, if the camera was anything to go by, and he had done his homework. How he had figured out the art was stolen by the Phoenix, Marco didn't know. After all, everyone knew him as a bank robber…<p>

His career switch had taken place a few months ago when his client had first approached him. Marco had received a note with a date, a time and a place, nothing more, and curiosity had gotten the best of him. After all, robbing banks had started to become boring, and he loved a challenge.

Marco had seen his client's face as much as the client had seen his, but the man – or so he assumed, they might have used a voice changer so he couldn't be sure – had given him a picture of an artwork that the museum was going to exhibit. The exhibition was not open yet, which gave him the perfect moment to swipe the painting. He was offered a large sum of money if he could pull it off. Of course, he hadn't said no, and being an art thief somehow sounded more… elegant than an ordinary thief. He hadn't asked why his client had wanted the painting, and he hadn't spoken to them again until he was summoned. Apparently, Marco had done a satisfying job.

Today's object his client had set his heart on was, once again, a painting. It was the pride and joy of the museum, and even if Marco didn't see the big whoop about it – it wasn't even that pretty – it was supposed to be very valuable and a big deal in the art world.

Marco always delivered the artefact he had stolen to a place agreed on beforehand, but never the same place twice. His client was wealthy, that much he knew, because the rewards were handsome.

Being an art thief was the challenge he had been looking for and, it seemed, his calling. This was now his sixth heist, and his streak for not being caught continued.

Marco landed and transformed into his human form, keeping his mask on as he snuck into the abandoned warehouse nearby where his client had told him to meet. Usually, Marco would leave the artefacts – often paintings, sometimes sculptures – there and would receive the promised money a few days later, accompanied with a thank you note. What his client wanted with the artefacts Marco didn't know, nor had he asked at their first and only meeting. As long as he was getting paid, he wasn't asking questions.

This time, however, Marco saw a figure sitting on a crate, dressed entirely in black. He wore a Venetian mask that covered the upper half of his face. He was lean, his long black hair tied in a ponytail. Cautiously, Marco approached the man, the painting tucked under his arm.

"You're late," the figure spoke. His voice sounded different from the first time they had met, and while the man had been hidden in the shadows back then, Marco knew he was speaking to his client.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I had some delay." He smiled sheepishly.

"Oh?"

"The cops were there sooner than I expected. Nothing I couldn't handle. They still don't know it's me. That is…" Marco trailed off.

His client looked up, intrigued.

Marco sighed. "There was a kid on the roof. Not that young, about twenty or so, but he said something like he knew it was me."

"So what did you do?" The other man – Marco was quite certain of that now – leaned with his head on his hand.

A smirk appeared on Marco's face. "I threw him off the roof."

"My, you don't do things by halves, do you?"

"Relax, a cop caught him. I didn't try to kill him, only create a diversion. I don't need a damn brat in my business." He held out the painting. "Here. You've chosen an ugly one this time."

"Do you even care?" his client asked with a smile, as he took the painting out of the bag and checked it.

"Not as long as you keep paying me."

"Well, then." His client put the painting back in the bag and rose. With a wave, he said: "You've done a satisfying job, as always. You'll receive your payment shortly." With that, he disappeared in the darkness of the warehouse, leaving Marco alone.

* * *

><p>Pleased with himself, Izo looked at the painting. The Phoenix had been right; it was an ugly piece of crap, but still it was admired by nearly everyone who was someone in the art world. Which was exactly why he had taken it. All of those snobs would be devastated. Izo would love to see pictures of their faces when it became known what was stolen. He imagined women fainting and men clutching at their hearts. A snicker escaped him.<p>

Of course, Izo would never show the public how much he loathed them, because he was part of the art world. Being in the art world was the only way for Izo to earn respect from others due to the way he looked.

That wasn't the reason he had gotten into art, however. Izo had always shown talent, but his parents had deemed it a waste of time and money for him to pursue a career in art. It wasn't until an anonymous sponsor had paid for his education at the art academy that he had been given the chance he had been waiting for. He ran away from home and took the opportunity given to him. His parents had tried to get him back, but with the help of the teachers, Izo had managed to stay enrolled.

After graduation, his career had set off – with the help of his mysterious sponsor – and he had soon started to make some money. He was now, as they called it, loaded, but it had meant Izo had had to sell his soul. Or so it felt. He hated the art world, but loved to create art.

So, as a fuck you to all the stuck up assholes he was stuck with, Izo had come up with a plan. Steal the art so precious to them and forge it. Selling copies on the black market made quite some money – not that he needed it, which was why he had anonymously set up a trust fund for children who wanted to become artists – but more importantly, it raised panic in the art world.

He had of course heard about the Phoenix before – who hadn't? – but the idea of hiring him to steal the art works hadn't occurred to Izo until he had received a mysterious letter suggesting it. It had been strange, just a note stating that the Phoenix was available for hire. Izo had wondered if the bank robber was responsible for the note, but how could he have known that Izo was different from the rest of the artist and art lovers? In any case, Izo had decided to risk it, and the Phoenix hadn't failed him yet. He still didn't know who the man was, but he was reliable and very good at his job, so Izo called upon him every time.

A knock on his door woke him from his thoughts and, hastily, he hid the painting.

"Yes?" he called.

His butler entered. "Sir, we have to leave if you want to be on time for your own exhibition."

"Ah, of course. I'm coming." Taking a last look in the mirror, Izo hummed, pleased with what he saw. His make-up was perfect, as was his hair, and he was wearing a new kimono. Everything was perfect, down to the finer details.

When he arrived at the exhibition in the limousine, a red carpet was spread out and many photographers stood ready. Excited screams could be heard as soon as Izo left the vehicle. He would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the attention, but that didn't mean he was happy about the reason he received it. He knew it was more because he was eccentric, not following the standard set by society when it came to fashion, than it was for his art. Still, he considered himself a fresh breath of air in the art world, something those dusty old people could definitely use.

Inside, Izo watched his guests looking at his paintings and sighed. He knew he was talented, but he also knew that most people were only here because he was the next new thing. He held some interviews, talked to some people, all the while with a fake smile plastered across his face.

Izo excused himself to go to the bathroom, though it was more because he felt a headache coming on, and needed to get some fresh air along with some peace and quiet than anything else. Nights like this reminded him how much he hated these people and he strengthened his resolve to forge the artefacts.

"'scuse me, ma'am," a voice behind him suddenly said. "I'm looking for the artist. Could you point me to him?"

As there was no one else around, Izo assumed the person had spoken to him. It wasn't the first time this had happened, yet it never failed to irritate him. With an expression that showed as much, he turned around, facing a man with a pompadour-like hairstyle and a scar around his left eye. His goatee, which was black, didn't match his red-brownish hair.

"I beg your pardon?" Izo said in his lowest voice possible.

The eyes of the man widened slightly when he realised his mistake. "Ah, I'm sorry. You wouldn't happen to be Izo, would you?"

"I would be." With that, Izo turned around and started to walk back inside.

Unfortunately, the stranger followed him. "Look, I didn't mean to insult you. I just assumed–"

Izo rolled his eyes. "Exactly, you assumed. And you didn't insult me."

"Well, good. I think." The man still kept following him. "My name is Thatch. My boss sent me to commission you–"

"I'm not interested."

"I knew it! I did insult you!"

Izo came to an abrupt halt, almost causing the other man to bump into him. "No. You didn't. But you're ignorant, which is almost as bad." He started walking again and let out an annoyed groan when Thatch continued to follow him.

"Don't let your first impression of me cloud your judgement! My boss will pay you anything you want…"

Izo snorted. "Look around you! Does it look like I need money?"

Thatch seemed a little dismayed at that. It was probably the best argument he had had. "Can I convince you in any way?"

"I doubt it. I don't take commissions. The fact that I dislike you doesn't help your case either." Izo picked up a glass of champagne from a tray a waiter was carrying and took a sip.

"Your art is really gorgeous…" Thatch tried weakly.

"I know." The artist rolled his eyes. "Don't try to suck up. It's beneath you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have guests that irritate me less than you to entertain." He pushed past Thatch, only to have his wrist grabbed. Izo turned around, eyes dark with anger. "If you want to keep that hand, I suggest you let me go this instant," he hissed.

Hastily, Thatch pulled back, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture. "Alright, I'm sorry." He scratched the back of his head. "I came here with one job, to convince you to accept the commission. Obviously, I screwed up, but can you at least consider it? I could get fired!"

"Maybe that's for the best," Izo snorted. "Then you can find a job that is more… idiot proof," he added with a small smirk. "If you'll excuse me."

"Go out with me."

Izo turned back to Thatch, his mouth hanging open, but no sound came out. He could only gape at Thatch. What went on in that man's head was beyond him.

"Ah, that came out wrong! Just…" Thatch seemed to consider his words. "Just have dinner with me. Then I'll present my argument and you can reject – _or accept_ – afterwards. Come on, the worst thing that can happen is you having a free dinner."

Izo watched him for a moment. After a closer look, the guy wasn't that bad looking. And now that he was all flustered about Izo's answer, it almost made him… cute. Still, it was fun to mess with him, so Izo took an extra-long sip from his champagne, pretending to consider the proposal. Just when Thatch looked like he was about to explode, he put down his glass.

"Alright. One chance."

Thatch sighed in relief. "Thank you! You won't regret it, I promise."

Izo rolled his eyes.

"Tomorrow at seven? I'll pick you up."

The artist smiled slightly. "Sure."

* * *

><p>Thatch couldn't help but feel a little giddy about the whole situation. He had gone to the exhibition last night expecting to deal with some stuck up know-it-all. Instead, he had met Izo. While the artist definitely looked down on him, it wasn't because Thatch wasn't an artist himself or an art expert. He disliked Thatch because, as always Thatch had managed to put a foot in his mouth and speak before he thought. He had been surprised when the artist had accepted his proposal, especially with the smile that had accompanied it. Just thinking about it made his skin tingle.<p>

He wasn't sure what exactly it was that had drawn him to Izo. Obviously, he was good looking and he didn't take shit from anyone. Yet there was something else. Izo seemed… lost. He didn't belong in the art world, not the one Thatch knew and feared, though he was no doubt talented. Thatch hadn't just been sucking up when he had complimented Izo's artwork. And honestly, he didn't blame Izo for not wanting to paint something someone else wanted him to paint.

Still, it was his job to get Izo to agree, or he could get fired. His boss had been very insistent that it was Izo who did the commission, even if Thatch wasn't sure why.

The fact that the dinner was business related didn't stop Thatch from trying to look his best. Making sure his pompadour was perfect and his goatee was well maintained, he stepped into the limousine and asked the driver to head for Izo's house. Last night, Izo had slipped a piece of paper in his hand with the artist's address written on it.

Arriving at Izo's house, Thatch could see that the artist hadn't been lying before; he definitely didn't need the money. The house was more like a mansion.

Suddenly feeling nervous, Thatch chewed his lip and wondered if he should have brought flowers or something. Taking a deep breath, he headed for the door and rang the bell.

The door was answered by the butler – Izo had a freaking butler – and, without a word, he showed Thatch in, asking him to wait in the hall until the 'master' showed up. Thatch swallowed thickly and nodded, feeling very self-conscious. He made good money with his job, but nowhere near this good. Looking down at his clothes, he realised how much he didn't belong in a place like this. What the hell had he been thinking, convincing himself that he had a shot with Izo?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Looking up, Thatch saw Izo standing at the top of an enormous staircase. He looked just as beautiful as the previous night, only less flashy. He wore a deep purple kimono and his hair was pinned up again, adorned this time with wooden hairsticks, and his face was covered in make-up. Just like as the previous night, he managed to take Thatch's breath away.

Izo chuckled and Thatch realised he had been staring. Clearing his throat embarrassedly, he waited until the artist had descended the stairs and was standing in front of him. It was hard to take his eyes off him.

"Well, er, the limo is ready," Thatch said, scratching the back of his head. "It's probably not as big as you're used to though."

Izo looked at him for a moment, before his lips curled into a small smile and he pressed a perfectly manicured finger against Thatch's chest. "Did no one ever tell you that size doesn't matter?" With that, he went outside.

For a moment, Thatch stood dumbfounded, butterflies fluttering around in his belly. When he managed to come back to his senses and run after Izo, the artist was already seated in the limousine. Hastily, he took a seat next to him, and directed the chauffeur to the restaurant.

"So what are we having?" Izo asked as he made himself comfortable.

"Japanese." In an article, he had read that Izo had Japanese roots, so it was a safe bet, right? Unless… that was what everyone figured. The man must be sick of that already! How stupid could he be? "Or we could go someplace else. It's your call," he hastily added.

Izo chuckled. "Japanese sounds fine to me." He sighed and relaxed against the comfortable couch, and seemed different from last night, less tense. So Thatch had been right; Izo didn't belong in the art world. He was just as uncomfortable around all those snobs as Thatch was, only Izo had to put up a mask and pretend to blend in. Looking at him now, all relaxed, he almost seemed… serene.

They talked about the weather on their way to the restaurant, and though the chauffeur beat Thatch to it with the car door, he insisted on opening the door of the restaurant for Izo. As they sat down at the table Thatch had reserved, he had trouble looking at anything other than the artist across from him. Only when Izo looked up from his menu did he hastily avert his eyes.

"Shall we start then?" Izo suddenly broke the silence, placing his menu on the table, clearly already decided on what he would order.

"Ah, right. So, where are you from?" Thatch asked, also making his choice.

Izo raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were here for you to convince me to take the commission."

"You don't waste time over business, do you? I thought we could have a pleasant conversation before we got to it," Thatch said, shrugging.

"This isn't a date."

"I know that." Thatch cursed the fact that his voice sounded higher than usual. "Doesn't mean it can't be pleasant, right?"

"Fine." Izo sat back in his chair. "I was born into a middleclass family, but when I wanted to pursue a career in art, my parents denied me. I managed to enrol into the art academy with the help of an anonymous sponsor."

"I had the same thing!" Thatch exclaimed. "Not for the art academy, though. For culinary school."

"You're a cook?" Izo asked as he placed his order with the waiter.

"Technically, yes, but with this economy, I couldn't find a job as a chef. Then my boss offered me this job, which pays pretty well. It's true that I've had a few offers from restaurants, but the money is so damn good."

"So you sell out your passion for some extra cash?" Izo asked.

Thatch shrugged. "We can't all be famous artists. I love to cook, but I need to live as well. And the job isn't that bad."

"What is your job, anyway? And who is this mysterious boss of yours?" Izo took a sip from his wine the waiter had just brought over.

"I'm the personal assistant to Teach Marshall. Well, more secretary," he added with a laugh. "Usually, I make his appointments, answer the phone and such."

"I do hope you're better at answering the phone than you are at convincing people," Izo said, amused. "But your boss, he's some sort of business man?"

"You've never heard of him?" Thatch was genuinely surprised. Teach Marshall was pretty famous. When Izo shrugged, he said: "Well, he made a lot of money in a short time, that's why he's sort of a local hero."

"That still doesn't make me want to accept a commission from him."

Thatch sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, to be honest, the 'lots of money as a reward' is the best argument I have. I just wanted to have dinner with you."

Izo looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Why? Why would anyone want to spend time with a beautiful and interesting stranger? To get to know them, of course." He shrugged and moved his arms from the table as the food was brought over.

Izo stared at him for a moment, trying to size him up. Eventually, he narrowed his eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. Well, of course I am, but not to get the commission."

"I thought your job was on the line," Izo remarked as he speared some vegetables on his fork and brought them to his mouth.

Thatch watched as Izo's painted lips skilfully wrapped themselves around the food and Thatch swallowed. Tearing his eyes away, he said: "I was being overly dramatic. Teach is a cool guy. Besides, I have a skillset to fall back on." He smiled, and was pleasantly surprised when Izo smiled back at him. Cracks were beginning to form in the mask Izo put on – metaphorically speaking of course, his make-up was applied perfectly.

"So what about the commission?" the artist asked.

Thatch shrugged. "I have a feeling that you've already made up your mind about that, and I doubt I could change it. So I suggest we just enjoy dinner."

Another smile tugged at the corner of Izo's mouth. "Yeah, let's do that."

They talked about all sorts of things, and Thatch was happy he got to know the artist a little better. While he didn't say it, Thatch could see that Izo led a lonely life and had been hurt before, so he had put up a wall around him. Thatch was pleased to see that he made a few cracks in that wall.

After dinner, Thatch brought Izo back to his home in the limousine. It had started raining, but before the chauffeur could open the door on Izo's side, Thatch hastily took over, shielding Izo with the umbrella as he stepped out of the car. Izo chuckled at his eagerness, but cast him a warm look that did weird things to Thatch's stomach.

He walked Izo to the door, keeping him dry under the umbrella. In front of the door, Izo stopped and turned to him. "I'll speak with your boss about doing the commission."

"Really? I thought you didn't want to," Thatch said, curious about what had brought on Izo's change of mind.

"I didn't, but you stayed anyway. So I'll do it as a favour to you."

"You don't have to–" he started to protest, but Izo shook his head.

"I want to."

"Does that mean I'll see you again?" Thatch asked hopefully.

The artist laughed. "Could I have stopped you, anyway?"

"Probably not." Thatch grinned, leaning in a little. Izo tilted his head, but before their lips could touch, the artist pressed his finger against Thatch's lips.

"That does mean we should keep our relationship strictly professional," he said softly.

Thatch made an annoyed sound, but then sighed in defeat as he took Izo's hand in his. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe after the commission is done?"

Izo chuckled. "Yeah, maybe."

They looked at each other for a moment, and Thatch wondered when they had started holding hands. Reluctantly, he let go.

The artist got ready to go inside, but then turned around again and bit his lip. "I have to say, I completely misjudged you. I'm sorry."

Thatch smiled sheepishly. "That's okay. I know I can be an idiot sometimes."

"But a cute idiot," Izo said, smiling. Then, he pressed his lips against Thatch's cheek. "Good night, Thatch."

Thatch watched him go inside, his hand pressed against his cheek. Long after Izo's lips left him, he still felt their warmth. Eventually, he sighed happily and, whistling, he returned to the limousine that was still waiting. He couldn't wait to tell his friend about Izo.

* * *

><p>"You're late." Ace slid the beer across the bar to his friend, who had just joined him.<p>

Thatch laughed sheepishly. "Yeah, for a moment I was hoping I wouldn't be coming at all."

Ace raised an eyebrow and took a sip from his drink. "Am I not good enough company for you?"

"Of course you are. I just… met someone."

"Oh? But it didn't work out?"

Thatch hummed around his beer. "Yes and no. Not for now. We like each other, but because we will be working together, we decided to keep it professional. For now."

"And who is this mystery person that can make our Thatch all weak in the knees?" Ace asked, teasing him.

Thatch snorted, but answered anyway. "Do you know the name Izo?"

Ace frowned. "Isn't he that eccentric painter?"

Thatch grinned.

"Nice. You got yourself a goldmine."

"Don't say that. I don't care about the money." Thatch shrugged. "He's just… amazing. But he has this sad look in his eye that makes me want to hold him and tell him it's all gonna be okay."

"Since when are you so sappy?" Ace snorted. Then he sighed. "Well, I'm happy for you, I guess. Though you would do good to tell him to watch his paintings. With all the art thefts and all."

"Right. You still convinced that it's the Phoenix who's behind them?"

"It _is_ the Phoenix. I saw him! Right before he launched me off the roof. Just because he made a career change doesn't mean it can't be him."

Thatch took a draught of his beer and shrugged. "Whatever you say."

Ace rolled his eyes at his friend's disbelief, but froze when he saw the reflection of a blue flame in the mirror behind the bar. Brusquely, he turned round, but all he saw were regulars of the bar.

Being a regular himself, Ace had become acquainted with quite a few of them, and there was one guy who he didn't recognise. He had blond hair and was wearing glasses. Unlike most of the people present, he sat alone, drinking what appeared to be whiskey. Something about him looked familiar though.

Ace grabbed Thatch's arm. "Don't look, but I think the Phoenix is here."

His friend rolled his eyes. "You know, this obsession of yours is getting out of hand. You really think the Phoenix would just walk into a bar?"

Ace shrugged. "Why not? Everyone needs a drink now and then, and he has a stressful job."

"Right, stealing artworks and whatnot." The sarcasm was dripping from Thatch's words and Ace became irritated.

"Just look. Inconspicuously!" he added when his friend just turned around.

Thatch rolled his eyes again, but did as he was told. "Where is he then?" When Ace indicated with his head, he burst into laughter. "The lonely blond? Listen, Ace, if you just want to get freaky with someone, you don't have to make up excuses. Just go and flirt a little!"

Ace stared at him with his mouth hanging open. Thatch couldn't be more wrong! As if he would want to get involved with a criminal. Sure this blond fellow was not that hard to look at, but still.

Thatch had given him a good idea on how to get close to the blond, though, so Ace decided to play along. "Alright, you got me. You sure you won't mind if I go?"

"Not at all!" Thatch slapped him amicably on the back. "I have to go anyway, early day tomorrow. Just keep it safe." He winked and downed his beer, missing Ace's eye roll. As if he was going to have sex with the Phoenix.

After his friend had left, Ace ordered two whiskeys and walked over to the table. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.

The man looked up and, after giving Ace a once over, he nodded. He looked a little surprised when Ace placed the glass of whiskey in front of him, and his lips curved into a playful smile. "I've always been told not to take drinks from strangers." His voice was deep and pleasant.

"I thought that only applied to candy," Ace responded with a smile of his own. "But if you don't trust me…" He picked up the glass that he placed in front of the blond and downed it in one. He placed the glass back on the table and looked at Marco defiantly.

The blond looked at Ace, trying to size him up. Eventually, he sat back in his chair and said musing: "You are either honest or very stupid to drink your own drug."

"Which is it gonna be?"

The blond cocked his head a little and chuckled. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt." He gestured for the bartender to give them another round.

"I'm Sabo," Ace said and stretched out his hand, though he wasn't sure why he gave a fake name. If this man was the Phoenix, he probably wouldn't remember him and if he did, Ace had never introduced himself ten years ago. At least as far as he could remember, so better safe than sorry.

"Call me Marco," the blond said as he picked up the glass that had just been placed in front of him, and took a sip.

"Okay, _Marco_," he said, making sure the name rolled off his tongue seductively. "Are you new here? I don't think I've seen you before."

Marco had already shown some interest in him, first by checking him out and inviting him to sit, and then through some subtle flirting. Ace only needed to seal the deal and make sure that Marco invited him to his place. If it was the same house he had brought Ace to ten years ago, he would have his proof. If not, Ace would have to look for clues himself, but it would be worth it.

His heart was beating like mad and he tried to calm himself by taking a sip of his booze. Ace was now undercover, but unlike cops, he didn't have any backup. As far as he knew, the Phoenix had never harmed anyone, but, then again, he _had _kicked Ace off the roof of a building.

Maybe Ace should have thought his plan through some more, but now it was too late. He could either pull out now or push through. If he gave up now, he lost a golden opportunity to find out the Phoenix's true identity. It didn't look as though the blond had recognised him, so he had the advantage here. He would have to see the plan through.

"I'm in town on business," Marco said, swirling his drink around in his glass. "Does that mean you come here often if you know everyone so well?"

Ace shrugged. "I come here to unwind. Most people here are regulars. The place is pretty hard to find for people who don't know its location. How did you find it?"

Marco smiled mysteriously. "Luck, I guess." As he said it, his eyes flicked up and down Ace's body.

The freckled man cheered on the inside, but made sure only to smirk back. He had Marco definitely hooked, so now he had to keep him interested.

He leaned in, head resting on his hand. "I think I'm the lucky one."

They chatted for a while, about a lot of things. Ace tried to fish for any kind of information he could obtain about the Phoenix, and when Marco excused himself to go to the bathroom, Ace quickly pulled out his notebook and wrote everything down. It wasn't much, the blond had a knack for making the conversation just about Ace, but, as a good journalist, he knew that every good lie contained a bit of truth. He might be able to figure Marco out if he took his time.

The one thing he didn't understand was the flicker of blue fire he had seen before he had seen Marco at the bar. It was almost as if the man had been trying to get his attention, but why would he risk using his powers in a public place? It didn't seem like anyone else had seen it, not even the barkeeper who should have been facing Marco. Had Ace imagined it? Was Thatch right that he was so obsessed with the Phoenix that he had started seeing things?

Ace didn't have much time to think about it because Marco returned. Hastily, he put away his notebook and tried to look bored.

"Is something on your mind?" Marco asked as he took a seat again.

"Hm, I was just thinking I'm getting bored of this place. You wanna go someplace else?"

"Did you have anywhere in mind?"

Time to reel in.

Ace leaned in and whispered in Marco's ear: "I was hoping a place that was a little more… private." Marco didn't stir for a moment, and Ace feared that his plan had failed, until the blond leaned in as well.

"And I assume you know a place like that?" he asked breathily, and Ace had to suppress a shudder. He kept repeating his goal in his head over and over again, that he was there to expose the Phoenix, _not_ to have sex with a handsome stranger.

It took him a few seconds to pull himself together. Swallowing several times, he said: "We could go to my place, but I have roommates. I don't suppose you have a place with less people?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Marco's mouth, and after counting a few bills, he placed the money on the table before standing up. "Follow me."

Ace couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief. For a moment, he had been afraid that Marco would suggest an alley or something, and that would have ruined Ace's plan entirely. Though, on second thought, Marco could still lead Ace to an alley after all.

Fortunately, that didn't seem to be the case, but Ace couldn't help but feel disappointed when they stopped in front of a hotel. It wasn't the house he had been in as a kid. Then again, Marco had claimed he was here on business, suggesting that he didn't live around here. The fact that they'd come to a hotel rather than a house made that story more even more plausible.

Still, this might just be the place the Phoenix operated from, so there could still be clues about Marco's real identity.

They made their way inside. The hotel wasn't that impressive, an average hotel for an average businessman, Ace figured. Marco had obviously checked in already as he led Ace straight to the elevator.

The freckled man was taken by surprise when he was suddenly pinned against the wall inside the elevator, hungry lips pressed against his. He yelped, but the sound was smothered by Marco's mouth, the sound soon turning into a moan.

Ace couldn't help it. Phoenix or not, Marco was an amazing kisser. He had hardly noticed how his mouth was coaxed open until Marco's tongue made its way inside. Ace couldn't suppress another moan, and gripped Marco's hair with one hand as the other clawed at Marco's shirt.

The doors of the elevator opened with a soft ping, and Ace was led outside. The freckled man had half the mind to look around, but the hallway was completely deserted. Soon, he was once again pressed up against a hard surface while Marco opened the door to his room, all the while never stopping kissing Ace.

Marco's hands roamed over his clothes, cupping his ass and squeezing it roughly. The freckled man could feel his body responding to the attention it was receiving. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he had a mission, but it was hard to focus with a hot guy's tongue down his throat, Ace concluded as he took off Marco's glasses.

His back hit the bed and Marco didn't waste any time, climbing on top of him. The blond's lips left his mouth and Ace let out a disappointed noise, which was soon muffled when Marco started to pay attention to his neck. In order to do that, Marco had to pull down the collar of the turtleneck sweater Ace was wearing, but right now, Ace didn't mind the cold. Teeth scraped the sensitive flesh of his neck and Ace sighed happily.

Maybe he had been too rash in his decision that Marco was the Phoenix. Why on earth would a wanted criminal walk into a bar, right? No, Marco was probably just a nice guy who was in town on business. A nice, hot guy who wanted to have sex with Ace, just as much as Ace wanted to have sex with him.

Marco kissed his lips once more, before he suddenly flipped Ace over onto his stomach and lifted up the sweaters he was wearing. Marco stopped moving and Ace looked over his shoulder, confused. The blond sat on Ace's upper legs, straddling them, and frowned as he looked down.

"What?" Ace snapped. He just wanted to get naked and fuck, was that too much to ask? A moment later, he realised what Marco was staring at. "What, never seen a scar from a seastone before? Lots of people have them, you know. I'm completely normal," he said hastily.

Marco's fingers brushed over the stone implanted at the base of his spine. "How long have you had this?" he asked softly.

Ace shrugged. "Since I was a kid, like most people."

"About ten years?"

Ace pushed up on his elbows and turned around as much as his position allowed and looked at Marco. "How would you– Unless…"

The blond shook his head. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he muttered.

"Of course it was!" Ace snapped, and tried to escape, but Marco had him pinned him down. "I am not a monster! Not like you!"

There was no doubt in his mind now that Marco was the Phoenix. No one else would have known that Ace had only had his seastone for ten years. Most children got them young so they didn't even remember which powers they had, much less develop them.

Marco moved and, suddenly, he was very close to Ace's ear. "I'm sorry this happened. I should have stayed with you."

"Fuck you!" Ace spat. "You shouldn't have saved me in the first place! Hell, you didn't save me at all! This seastone is the best thing that ever happened to me! At least I'm not a demon anymore!"

"I'm sorry to hear that they got to you. I should have protected you, and I'm sorry." He flipped Ace over again, knocking the air out of his lungs. "For what it's worth," he continued, "it was nice seeing you again." He kissed Ace again before jumping onto the windowsill.

Ace was still trying to figure out what the hell had happened, and could only stare as Marco, the Phoenix, changed his shape into a bird form and let himself fall out of the window. As soon as his body listened again, Ace ran to the window, but he could only see a blue flicker disappear into the night's sky.

* * *

><p>Marco flew through the sky, the wind whistling through his feathers. He loved to fly and couldn't bear the thought of never using his powers again. Like the boy. He sighed as guilt gnawed at him. He should have never let him out of his sight. He could have taken the boy under his wing – figuratively speaking – and help him develop his powers.<p>

Instead, he had just postponed the inevitable. The government had gotten to the boy, Sabo apparently, indoctrinated him with their lies about him containing a demon. Sabo had called him a monster because he had his powers, but it were his powers that made Marco complete. He had been miserable when he had had the seastone implanted and he was sure Sabo was as well. The boy had the power of fire after all. He shouldn't have been wearing at least three sweaters to keep warm.

The man who had raised him, had explained to Marco that the seastone implants had a side effect. They would suppress the person's powers, but at the same time, they would make them vulnerable for the opposite of the power. That was why Marco was sick often and his wounds only slowly healed when he had the implant; it was because his powers were those of healing. So Sabo, with his power of fire and therefore heat, was cold because his powers couldn't protect him anymore.

Marco had recognised Sabo as the boy soon after they had started talking. The boy hadn't changed as much in appearance aside from growing up, and he was pleased with how Sabo had grown up. The boy – now a man – had seemed interested in him as well, and Marco had had every intention to have sex with him. But first, he had had to check if what he feared was true.

Marco had hoped he was wrong, that Sabo still had his powers, those beautiful flames from ten years ago, but there it was, the seastone at the base of his spine. He hated the sight of it, and he hated what they had done to that boy. Brainwashed him. Marco feared he was too late to help him. Sabo wouldn't listen to him, not anymore. If only he had stayed with him all those years ago…

Sighing, Marco shook his head. Nothing could be done about it anymore, so he had to accept the fact that Sabo was how he was.

Now, Marco had another mission and another artefact to steal. He would be early in executing the robbery as he had planned to drinking in a bar or, after meeting Sabo, to be rolling around in the sack at this moment now, but it didn't really matter. He would be able to leave it at the agreed place, and his client could pick it up when he wanted.

Today's artefact was a small sculpture from a private, housed collection. Marco landed on the roof, transforming into his human form, his mask covering his face. The window to the attic where the sculpture could be found was easily opened, and noiseless, he let himself drop down onto the floor.

The house was completely silent and dark, but that had never stopped him before. Using his fire to light the way, Marco searched the house for the sculpture. His client was always quite thorough when laying out his plans, and this time he had provided Marco with the blueprints of the house, a cross indicating where Marco could find the sculpture.

Of course, it was locked tightly in a safe – tightly for normal thieves at least. With all his experience, it took Marco two minutes to open it, disappointing himself with how easy it had been.

Contemplating if he should take the sculpture professionally without setting off the alarm or just grab it and go, he carefully wrapped his hand around the statue. Tonight had doubled his pent up sexual frustration as Marco had had a very willing partner. His fun had been cut short, however, and so he decided that he could use a good old fashioned chase to relieve some of his frustration. Putting the statue in his bag, he waved his arms around a bit to set off the alarms, if they hadn't been set off already. The door of the safe started to close automatically and, with a satisfied grin, Marco snuck out of it.

Marco left the room with the safe in it and made his way to the living room. Several staff members seemed to have been woken by the alarm. Marco decided that enough people had seen him and transforming, he burst through a window, shattering the glass.

Sirens of police cars were wailing outside when Marco, in his Phoenix disguise, sailed through the sky. It had been a long time since he had flown so fast and he pushed his limits to the extreme.

Eventually, he was satisfied with the distance between him and his pursuers, and Marco landed, changing to his human form and taking a moment to catch his breath.

With the bag containing the statue secure on his back, Marco started to make his way through the town to the agreed meeting place. It was in a deserted area, as were all of their exchange places.

When he arrived, Marco saw a figure standing underneath a streetlight, seemingly waiting for something, and, hastily, he hid. The person didn't appear to be a cop, but they were standing in the shadows, so Marco couldn't be sure.

There were two possibilities. Either the person was a civilian waiting for someone or it was his client waiting. If it was the former, Marco could only approach in his human form without his mask of flames. If it was his client, however, he wouldn't be able to show his face and reveal his true identity.

Debating on what to do, Marco was startled when a voice suddenly spoke: "I understand that you need to be careful, but I can guarantee you that I haven't seen your face."

Recognising the voice instantly, Marco rose, flames covering the upper half of his face. "What are you doing here? I'm not late this time. On the contrary."

His client shrugged. "I was bored."

Same as the last time they had met, Marco's client was clad in all black clothes and wearing a Venetian mask with his hair hanging in a loose ponytail down his back.

"Bored?" Marco asked, a little suspicious.

His client took a seat on a rickety looking bench and tapped the wood beside him. "I have to admit, I don't have many friends and I rather enjoyed our talk the other night."

Marco sat down beside him and observed the other closely. The only skin on show was the lower half of his face as even his hands were clad in black cloth, but Marco could see he had a pale complexion. From behind the Venetian mask, dark eyes looked back at him, and, for some, reason, they put Marco at ease. Not enough to throw all caution to the wind and remove his own mask, of course, but they did make him relax a little. "You enjoy talking about throwing people off roofs?"

"What?" His client smiled. "You did that again?"

He smirked back. "Not this time, no. My plans were interrupted again, however."

"Do tell."

"Let's just say that I'd have rather stayed inside a little longer and finished what I'd started."

"Did you have company?" his client inquired.

Marco just placed his elbows on the back of the bench and stared to the sky, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth when he recalled the noises Sabo had made.

His client chuckled behind his hand. "Naughty boy. Do I want to know why your adventure was cut short? Jealous partner?"

Marco shrugged. "It's a little more complicated than that." He knew he should probably be worried that Sabo had seen his face and knew who he was at night, but Marco was more concerned about Sabo's attitude towards devil's fruit powers.

His client seemed to sense his reluctance to talk about it further, so he changed the subject. "You know, you've never asked me why I want you to steal these artefacts."

"You don't pay me to ask questions. But," Marco continued, "a while ago, the first painting I stole for you resurfaced on the black market. Or a painting very closely resembling it." He looked at his client from the corner of his eye.

The other man chuckled. "I also don't pay you to think. But very good, Mr Phoenix."

"So a forger, eh? That must be where you get the money to pay me."

"Actually, I am very rich to begin with. That reminds me, I have something for you. That is, if you have something for me."

Marco leaned forward and rummaged around in his bag until he retrieved the statue. His client took it from him, studying it closely. "What do you think of this one, Mr Phoenix?"

Marco shrugged. "I only steal art because you ask me to, not because I have any knowledge about it."

"Then I suggest you read some literature on art. But that's not what I asked."

"It's okay. I've seen nicer stuff."

His client smiled, handing him an envelope before he rose. "I had a lovely time. Until next time, Mr Phoenix."

* * *

><p>Izo stood in front of a tall building, looking up. His hair was done perfectly, as always, though he might have put in a little extra effort today. Not for this Marshall fellow he was going to meet, but perhaps a little for Thatch.<p>

He really had to stop smiling when he thought of Thatch, but he couldn't help it. Thatch was different from anyone else he had ever met. He didn't care about anything but Izo himself. Not Izo's fame or his money. He was the only one who liked Izo for who he was, with maybe the exception of the Phoenix, but he knew as much about the Izo as Izo did about him.

From what he had seen last night, the Phoenix appeared to be blond, but that was as far as his information went. That, and he knew the man had a pleasant voice. Quite soothing, actually. Izo was curious about the man behind the mask. Did he have a normal job during the day or did he only come out at night?

Shaking off the thoughts about last night, as he had other things to focus on, Izo entered the building. Despite the size, he immediately felt trapped. He felt more at home in his own studio, with windows on all sides to capture as much natural light as possible. The building here was lit with artificial light that made every colour look washed out.

Izo wrapped his arms around himself and glanced around a bit helplessly, unsure what to do. His feeling of unease disappeared when the elevator pinged and the sliding doors opened to reveal Thatch's smiling face.

"Right on time," Thatch said warmly when he saw Izo, and reached out his hand. "Come on, Mr Marshall is waiting."

Put at ease, Izo followed Thatch inside the small elevator as his companion pressed the button for the top floor.

"Nervous?" he asked Izo as the doors slid shut.

"Why would I be nervous?" the artist huffed. "Your boss wants something from me, and I'm in the position to deny it. I don't need anything from him. In fact," he turned towards Thatch, "some things would be much easier if I didn't take the job."

Thatch seemed to hesitate, weighing his options, but finally sighed. "I can't force you to do anything, not that I want to, but don't decline just for me. It would be pretty good for my career and it's only temporary, right?"

"Fine." The word came out more primly than he had intended, if only because he didn't want Thatch to know that he was a little disappointed. He knew he shouldn't be, after all, they didn't even know each other that well. It had just been long time since he had had someone to talk to who he actually liked, but just because he was lonely didn't mean that Thatch should turn his life upside down for him.

"Wait."

Izo turned around, slightly confused. Thatch hadn't moved from his spot in the elevator.

Slowly, Izo stepped back inside. "What is it?"

"I don't want you to think I think money is more important than you are."

"We don't know each other that well," Izo countered. "And it's fine, really."

"No, it's not. I…" Thatch scratched the back of his head. "I have been saving up for a while now and a bonus could really come in handy."

"I understand," Izo said. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's fine. I said I wanted to do this for you. So it's all good."

"I want to open my own restaurant."

Izo froze, his finger hovering over the button to open the elevator doors that had closed while they were talking. Slowly, he turned around. "Really?"

"Yeah. Cooking is my real passion. I don't want to be stuck as a secretary all my life. I know I could earn my money doing what I love, but this helps me get it quicker. It's just a means to an end. But," he said as he took Izo's hand, "I like you, and if this is going to drive a wedge between us…"

"It's not." Izo smiled. "You said it; it's only temporary." He opened the elevator doors and left the small space, swaying his hips a little more than necessary. Just to mess with Thatch.

* * *

><p>Thatch only remembered that staring at Izo's behind <em>wasn't <em>his assigned task for the day when the elevator doors threatened to close again. Hastily, he slipped through them and followed the artist towards his boss' office. "Wait here a second," Thatch said to Izo and gestured to the couch that stood next to his desk.

Izo did as he was told, crossing his legs elegantly, and Thatch had to remind himself to go to Mr Marshall's office.

He knocked and when he was invited in, he peered his head around the corner. "Mr Marshall? Your ten o'clock is here."

His boss looked up from his desk. "Ah, the artist, right? Let 'em in!"

Thatch nodded and retracted his head. "Izo? Come on in."

The artist rose, brushing imaginary dust from his kimono, and entered the office, passing Thatch, who held the door open.

Mr Marshall rose and welcomed Izo in with open arms. They shook hands and his boss gestured for the artist to sit in the chair across the desk. "Thatch!" he called out. "It's time for pie, don't you think?"

Thatch chuckled. For his boss, it was always time for pie. While he didn't want to leave Izo alone, he needed to leave the room to get the pie.

In the kitchen, Thatch cut several pieces of pie in record time, and pouring the coffee he had made beforehand, he returned to his boss' office.

"You do have a lot of nerve to demand something like this from me," Izo said just as Thatch closed the door behind himself. "On top of that, you sent your _assistant_ to do your dirty work. I don't need this commission, you know."

Mr Marshall burst into laughter. "Of course, of course. I was planning to come myself, but things got in the way. And Thatch does have a certain charm about him, doesn't he?" He slapped Thatch amicably on his shoulder as a piece of pie was placed in front of him. Thatch dared to shoot a glance at Izo and saw that one corner of his mouth was curled up subtly.

"I suppose he does. And it is only out of courtesy to him that I even consider doing it. So convince me." Izo picked up his fork and broke off a piece of the pie. Thatch watched with a mixture of excitement and anticipation as the artist took a bite and smiled as his face lit up.

"Good pie, eh? Our Thatch makes them himself," his boss said.

Izo looked at Thatch, a look of slight surprise on his face and a genuine smile on his lips. Thatch could only grin in return, even if he looked like a fool doing it.

"As for compensation…" Marshall slid a piece of paper across the desk. Izo picked it up and stared at the number unimpressed, even if it made Thatch's mouth fell open. If his bonus was anything like that, he would be able to buy his restaurant tomorrow!

Izo placed the paper back on the desk. "I don't need the money. However, while this is very generous, it is still a lot for one of my paintings."

"That's because I want two." Mr Marshall scraped his plate clean and patted his belly. "Do you have more of this delicious pie, Thatch?"

"Sorry, all out," he said hastily. He wasn't actually out, but he was intrigued by the conversation. His boss had never mentioned anything about wanting two paintings.

Mr Marshall looked disappointed, but before he could protest, Izo said: "Two?"

"Well, yeah. The first one is what you would call a test run."

"Excuse me? If you want samples, you can just look at the paintings I have made before." Thatch could hear the irritation in Izo's voice, and he hoped his boss hadn't insulted the artist.

"Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like your art. On the contrary. But while I know what the painting looks like, I don't know how the landscape or model look."

"Like on the painting," Izo all but spat. Thatch was getting nervous. If Izo lost his cool, he would need to pick a side and he would rather not have it come to that.

"Right. But the human body is never perfect, and some artists have the tendency to obscure the blemishes, so to speak," Marshall explained. "I need to know you can replicate something exactly… for the actual commission."

Izo seemed to mull his words over. "You are very lucky I haven't stormed out of your office," he finally said. "I have done that for less. You insult me by wanting a test. But since I came all the way down here, I'll give you a minute to make your proposal."

"That's simple. I want you to paint Thatch."

"Thatch?"

"Me?" Thatch called out simultaneously.

His boss leaned back in his chair. "Sure. I don't have the time, and I know what Thatch looks like. Do it satisfactorily and half of this," he tapped the piece of paper, "is yours."

"Wait, do I have a say in this?" Thatch asked, confused.

"You work for me, so no. And you'll get to keep the painting. Consider it a bonus."

Thatch's face fell. He had hoped his bonus would be money and while having a painting of himself painted by Izo might be nice, nobody wanted to buy a portrait of someone they didn't know.

"Alright."

Surprised, Thatch turned around. On Izo's face lay a mischievous smile.

"However," the artist said, "I can only paint during the day because I need natural light. Which means I'll need Thatch during the day."

"Not a problem! A monkey can do Thatch's job. He'll be replaced easily."

Thatch snorted indignantly. A monkey couldn't bake a pie, could it?

"Then you have yourself a deal." Izo rose and shook Mr Marshall's hand. "When do you want me to start?"

"Tomorrow, I need it done as soon as possible."

While the other two men made a deal, it slowly started to dawn on Thatch what being Izo's model meant. It meant spending several days with the artist, at his house, just the two of them in private…

The foolish grin returned to his face. He couldn't wait to tell Ace about this.


End file.
